life, death, love and other forms of poetry by alcoholic poet

I toyed with the interpretation. Making miniatures of every pause. Die-cast, habitual models of serendipity in all its vacuum. Clogged.

Waiting for the dog to stop barking. For the child to stop pelting the dumpster with his football. It reasoned without provocation that time had suffered in its corset long enough. Longer than it had to. And we were fortunate. To be there at the bow's inception. And at its release.

I never knew I could die so exquisitely. Or would have known all the deaths there are to cherish. If not for that first one.

In acrylic. Embedded in straied brushes. In charcoal. Bound to fingerprints stolen from lovers. Arrested from the coax of sex after the sheets had gone cold again. There was the obvious. The bruised ribs to point to and blame. The devils under the angel's gowns. Trying to conceal their zippers.